Elusive Redemption
by fanficwriter24601
Summary: Robert Goren has endured 769 days of endless torment. Help is on it's way. But is it too little, too late?
1. Intuition

Summary: Robert Goren has endured 769 days of endless torment. Help is on it's way. But is it too little, too late?

A/N: This is a continuation of the Trials and Tribulations Series. The first story in this series: Unexpected Tribulations is an explicit story that can only be found on Archive of Our Own. You can find me there under User24601 or FanFicWriter24601. Feel free to message me if you would like the link as I cannot post it here.

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**Chapter 1: Intuition**

The sergeant in charge of the intelligence unit down at the 21st precinct was not a man you wanted to cross. Hank Voight had a reputation as a man who would get the result he wanted, no matter the cost. He was a good cop, but he was also the type of cop that would have no problem bending or breaking rules to see justice done.

It was in the small hours of the morning and the sergeant was finally finishing up for the night. They had just wrapped up a high-ranking politician blackmail case. The kind of paperwork involved seemed like a never-ending barrage of form after form. Exhausted, he walked down towards the back stairs on his way out. As he passed the holding cells/drunk tank, a voice called out to him.

"Excuusse me, Offivcer!"

Backtracking a few steps, Voight turned to face the drunk man that had called out to him.

"Yes?" Hank asked, his gravely voice gruff with inconvenience, as he carefully eyed the tall blonde man. The man's clothing was rumpled and Voight could smell the alcohol the emanated from him.

"Imma need a phone call. Pleassse? It'ss important," said the blonde man.

"Sorry pal. Nothing I can do about that," Voight responded. "You'll get your phone call in the morning. Just sit tight and sober up."

The man grumbled something under his breath, but Voight didn't hear any of it, his back already turned as he headed out the door. A few seconds later, Hank was breathing in the warm summer night air, as he headed to his car. Upon reaching his vehicle, Hank fumbled with his keys, a tight feeling in his gut distracting him. Opening the door, and taking a seat, the sergeant put the keys in the ignition but did not turn on the engine. The underlining sense of dread and foreboding, that had started when he had heard the man's voice was preventing him from leaving.

"Fuck it," Hank said to no one in particular, as he climbed out of the car and headed back inside.

Avoiding the holding cell, Hank wound his way around to the front desk were he retrieved the log from the deputy on duty. Scanning the entries, Hank found the one he was looking for: At 1:22 a.m. on June 28, 2014, officer was dispatched to Woodlawn Avenue regarding a drunk driver. Dean Kipling (DOB 7-15-1957) was pulled over and blew a blood alcohol level reading of 0.17%. Suspect was arrested for DUI (driving under the influence).

"You know anything about this Dean Kipling in the holding cell," Voight asked the deputy.

"Not really," replied the deputy, "just that he is drunk and keeps asking for his phone call. And something about a broken something back at his house."

"He give you the creeps?"

The deputy leaned forward and said in a whisper, "Yeah, can't put my finger on it though."

A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up outside a small house with a white picket fence. Sergeant Voight glanced down at his phone to make sure he had the right address. A few minutes later, Detective Alvin Olinsky pulled up alongside and rolled down the window to speak with his commanding officer.

"Hey," Olinsky said as he nodded his head towards the house, "this the place?"

"It would seem so," Voight replied. "Go and park down the street a bit and meet me round back."

Olinsky and Voight were cut from the same cloth, both experienced police. But where Voight was tight-jawed and clean cut, Olinsky was grizzled and woolly. He could usually be seen sporting a flat cap and a handlebar mustache. So, when he got the call from his long-time friend and boss, he simply rolled out of bed and got his ass over to the location.

"You get someone to make that 911 call?" Voight asked as he approached.

"Yeah," the detective replied. "Got one of my CIs to call in possible gunshot from this location."

"Good," said Hank as he pulled out Kipling's keys, that he had swiped from the evidence locker, "that gives us probable cause to enter. Can't be too careful these days. Here's hoping we don't find anything and we can just go home, no one the wiser."

Unlocking the back door, the two men stepped into the home. Pulling out their flashlights, they did a quick sweep of the place. Voight went right, checking out the kitchen, dining room, and master suite. Olinsky went left, searching the coat closet, laundry room, and bathroom. The detective was in the living room, looking at the bookshelves when Hank met back up with him.

"Nothing unusual, as far as I can see," Hank said. "Think he lives alone?"

"What size was the bed?" asked Olinsky in his usual monotone.

"King. Why do you ask?"

"Because he has a partner," Olinsky replied as he held up a framed picture of Kipling with another dark-haired man.

"Oh," Hank said. "That kind of partner. Well then, that makes sense why there were two sinks in the master bath."

"There's something else you should see," Olinsky stated as he lead the way out of the living room and down the hallway. Alvin stopped in front of the closet door, opening it up, and shined his light down at a plush toy penguin.

"That's odd," Voight said. "Why would two grown men have an entirely empty closet except for one stuffed animal?"

"You think that's odd? I think this closet has been soundproofed."

"Really," Hank said as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The darkness enveloped him and quickly turning around, he reached for the nonexistent door handle to push it back open. Raising his voice, Voight called out for Olinsky to open the door. Nothing happened, and Hank pounded his fist against the frame. Olinsky's bewildered faced greeted him a second later.

"Took you long enough," Hank grumbled.

"Well, looks like I was right about it being soundproof," said Olinsky. "And there's one last thing."

"What's that?"

"There's an empty space behind this wall. The laundry room on the other side doesn't come completely over this way."

"Staircase," was Hank's reply, "there must be a staircase. I didn't see any basement windows, but there was a foundation, it would make sense for there to be a basement."

It only took them a few moments to discover the heavily locked door behind the coats, hats, and scarves hanging in the coat closet.

"This thing is a beast," observed Olinsky. "You got the keys still?"

"They're right here," Voight said as he grappled with them. Trying the different keys until he found a match.

"Hank," Olinsky said suddenly, "there's a keypad here too. We're not getting in without some sort of code."

Sighing in frustration, Voight dropped the keys. "Whatever is behind this door, it can't be good." Silence filled the air as both men contemplated the possibilities of what a heavily fortified door, in an inauspicious looking house, could possibly be hiding.

"Well," Hank said at last, "let's give squad a call and have them come crack open this door."

"Sure thing boss," replied Olinsky.

"And Al, see if they can remain as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing we need is to attract attention and have one of the neighbors give the other guy a heads up before we even know what's going on." 

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A/N: This story is cross posted on Archive of Our Own.


	2. Rescue

**Chapter 2: Rescue**

The alarm blares and the overhead speakers crackled as the robotic-like monotone voice comes over the intercom, "SQUAD 3. POLICE ASSIST. 19th AND WOOD."

Lieutenant Kelly Severide rolls out of bed and is already on his feet and headed quickly towards the apparatus bay before the announcement is concluded. His men are only a second behind him as they all climb into their gear and board the fully equipped squad truck. Once everyone is in, Severide exclaims, "Let's roll out." With the squeal of tires, a singular 'woop' of the siren, and the flash of lights, the truck lurches out into the still darkness of early morning.

A block or so away from their destination, Lieutenant Severide sees Detective Olinsky waving them down. The squad truck rolls up next to him and Severide jumps out to confer with the other man.

"What's the situation?" Severide asks.

"We got a 911 call about possible shots fired from inside a residence," Olinsky replied. "Due to the exigent circumstances, we entered the residence and there is the possibility of a person or persons who's safety is at risk. Problem is, there is a steel enforced security door blocking our ability to finalize our search of the property."

"Then why bother stopping us before we get on location?"

"We have one suspect in custody but the other is in the wind. Voight doesn't want the presence of police or the fire department to alert of any neighbors who would then tip off our missing suspect."

"Stealth mode it is then,"Severide replied before calling out to his crew. "Park here. Cruz, Capp, grab the hydraulics and the saw, you're with me."

The three heavily geared men then followed Olinsky as he led them between houses and down a tight alleyway to the back door of the residence, where Voight was waiting. Severide noticed the door hadn't been knocked down, which was unusual for an exigent circumstances entry. But since he was dealing with the intelligence unit, he knew better than to question it and wisely kept his mouth shut. There wasn't much room for the three men and their gear in the small coat closet, but they squeezed in and assessed the situation.

After inspecting the door, Severide said, "Capp, go back out and cut off the power for the house. Cruz, get those hydraulics ready to go."

"How are you guys planning on getting in?" Voight asked as he poked his head from around the corner.

"Simple enough," replied Severide, "we're just going to cut off the hinges."

Voight studied the heavy duty steel hinges that joined the door to the frame. Tough as they might be, they were no match for the Jaws of Life.

The dimly glowing numbers of the keypad went dark and a moment later Capp came back in announcing the power was off, flipping the light switch on and off a few times to illustrate his point. Then Severide and Cruz lifted the heavy hydraulic shears as they positioned the blades around the top hinge. A loud and low whine emanated from the contraption followed by a quick and loud snap as the first hinge fell to the floor with a clunk.

Olinsky stood outside, keeping watch, praying that the noises from inside would not wake the neighborhood.

Two more thunks and the screeching of metal as they pulled off the door, echoed through the small room and down the hallway. Voight stepped through the now empty doorway, his flashlight issuing a wide and direct beam of light down the wooden steps before him.

"Chicago Police Department, call out," the sergeant said as he slowly walked down the stairs, followed closely by Olinsky who had come back inside. To his left were a drain, hose, and metal table. There was an open space off to his right and what looked like a thin blanket covering a lumpy object. Further back was a door that led into other room. Motioning to Olinsky behind him to go and check the other room, Hank made his way over to the covered object.

A chain was bolted to the floor but it too was partially covered by the thin blanket. Kneeling down to inspect the object, Hank heard Olinsky rattle the door handle of what was clearly a locked door. Carefully grabbing the edge of the blanket, he drew it back. Olinsky was saying something, but Voight wasn't listening. Every fiber of his being was fixated on the figure in front of him.

Small, bruised, bloody, broken, these were the thought that rattled around in Hank's mind as his eyes swept over the nearly naked figure. Reaching down, Voight placed his fingers on the man's neck, feeling for the carotid artery. The skin underneath his fingers was cool to the touch. Unconsciously, he took in a deep breath and held it, steadying his hand as he felt for a pulse. The air that he had gulped in smelled and tasted not only of blood but of sweat and pain and other bodily fluids, not to mention the musty damp smell of a cold and desolate cellar.

"Holy Mother of God," Alvin quietly remarked as he approached Hank and the deathly still form. Those words, which he would typically mutter in vain blasphemy, we instead a four worded desperate prayer. "Is he dead?"

"No, just unconscious" Hank breathed as the air he had been holding in his lungs rushed out. "Have the guys upstairs bring down the bolt cutters and radio for a bus."

When Severide saw Olinsky coming quickly up the stairs, he questioned him, saying, "You guys find your gunshot victim?"

"Worse," was Olinsky's reply. "Can you radio for a bus?"

"Sure thing," Severide said. Then turning his head slightly, and pressing the button on the side he spoke into his radio, "Dispatch this is Squad 3 requesting a bus to our location."

"Copy that Squad 3," came the static reply.

"One of you got a bolt cutter," Olinsky asked.

"I do," Cruz said as he held up the hefty implement.

"Good," replied Olinsky, "we need it. Follow me."

Olinsky came back down the stairs, followed closely by Cruz and Severide a few steps behind him. Voight glanced away from the victim, who he had partially covered back up with the blanket, as they walked down the creaking steps.

"Over on the right," Voight said as he nodded his head in the direction of the bolted chain.

Cruz made the sign of the cross when he saw the man on the floor, despite the heavy tool he was carrying. Severide stopped in his tracks, completely taken aback by the view before him. Olinsky had started pacing around the basement, shining his light, looking around but not actually paying attention to anything he saw. And Voight, he had placed his hand on the unconscious man's chest as if to transfer some warmth and sense that help was on its way. Hank could just barely feel the man's heart steadily but slowly beat below the surface.


	3. Aesculapian

**Chapter 3: Aesculapian**

"Severide," Gabby called out to the Lieutenant of Squad 3 as she and her paramedic partner, Leslie Shay, pulled up behind squad's truck. "Where's the victim?"

"Dawson," said Severide, "I'm glad you're here. One of the men responsible is still out there, so Voight wanted to keep things as quiet as possible. Grab your gear and you and Shay can follow me."

"Voight's here?" Gabby asked suspiciously. Sure the guy was her brother's boss, but that didn't mean she had to like him. Especially since Voight tried to strong arm her boyfriend into falsifying a DUI accident report a few years back. Still, she had to admit the man's moxie was admirable.

"Yeah, he and Olinsky were investigating a shots fired call when they came across the victim," Severide said as he led the women to the house.

"Shouldn't we hurry then," interrupted Shay, "if our victim has been shot."

"He hasn't been shot," replied Severide morosely.

"So let me get this straight," said Gabby, "we are responding to a shots fired call, but no one's been shot."

Severide merely shook his head and said, "You'll see in a minute."

Leading the paramedics into the house and down the stairs, Kelly Severide was clearly still disturbed by the scene that they had found behind that re-enforced steel door.

Once they had verified the victim was breathing and had a pulse, Gabby and Leslie were quick stabilize the bruised and bloody legs with splints. Cruz had cut the chain away from the manacle that was still cuffed around the man's ankle, so they were able to move him on to a stretcher. They covered him with a thin emergency thermal space blanket and then with a thicker wool blanket, that they then tucked around him before strapping him down to the board before they maneuvered the gurney up the stairs.

"I'm riding along with you in the ambulance," Voight announced as they ascended the stairs.

"Olinsky," Voight said as he turned towards his detective, "call Dawson and Lindsay, have them meet me at the hospital. Meanwhile, you stay here and take custody of the crime scene. We're also going to need a warrant before we can do a proper search and log anything into evidence. Not to mention keep an eye out for our second perp, in case he decides to come home. I trust you can get that done."

"Sure thing boss," was Olinsky's reply.

Pushing the gurney through the doors of the emergency department, Gabby Dawson gave the oncoming doctors and nurses the rundown, "John Doe, 40's. Found unconscious and non-responsive on the scene with possible multiple leg fractures. GCS 7, BP 87 over 50 but stable, heart rate 60. Temp 96.8"

"Trauma room 2," Nurse Lockwood directed.

In the few seconds it took to maneuver into the room, Dr. Choi had already gloved up and taken the control of the situation.

"Let's move him on my count," said Dr. Choi. "One, two, three…"

Everyone gathered around the unconscious man, grabbed a hold of the board he was lying on and transferred him to a hospital bed. Paramedics Shay and Dawson slid the board out from underneath the still figure and exited the room, allowing the nurses and doctors to care for him.

"First let's get a full blood panel and tox screen, then a CMP," Dr. Choi called out. "We'll try and get him up for a full CT scan as soon as he is stable." In a flurry of calculated motion, the requisite samples were taken and the patient was hooked up to various machines.

"Push fluids, 150 milligrams of clindamycin, 30 milligrams of ketorolac, and 80 milligrams dopamine," instructed Dr. Choi as he checked the man's vitals. Grabbing out his trusty penlight, the doctor checked the man's mouth and eyes. "Airway is clear and pupils reactive." Then pulling out his stethoscope, he listened to the man's chest. "Clear breath sounds on both sides." The doctor palpated the man's stomach. "Belly is soft, no sign of internal bleeding."

"Doctor Choi!" a nurse called out. "His temperature is rising rapidly and his blood ox levels are falling."

Dr. Choi went back to check the man's airway, which was clear a moment just before, was now starting to swell shut.

"Dammit! I'm going to have to intubate," said Dr. Choi as a technician handed him an intubation kit. Luckily, Choi had a steady hand as he inserted the tubing through the man's trachea and into his esophagus. In the thirty seconds it took him to do this, the other medical staff had already grabbed ice packs and placed them on the body.

As the patient's breathing was regulated and his temperature returned to normal, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. There was a flush on the man's skin, a rash had appeared along the arm that had the IV inserted and it was spreading across his body.

"An allergic reaction," a nurse observed. "Should we give him a dose of Epi?"

"No," replied Dr. Choi, "he's stable and I don't want to give him anything else until we figure out what caused the reaction in the first place. We'll just keep an eye on him until we get a chance get that CT."

Stripping off his gloves, Dr. Choi had a second to fully look over the bruised and broken man. The most obvious injuries were to the man's legs. Livid red and purple bruises covered the lower legs. There was signs of serious chafing on both of his wrists and uncovered right ankle. The scarring on the insides of both of his wrists indicated a previous attempt at suicide. There was a foreign word that had been tattooed on his right inner thigh. And the left ankle was still encased in a thick metal band.

"Let's see if we can get one of the surgical saws down here so we can cut that thing off," Dr. Choi instructed.

"Doctor?" Voight's gravely voice disturbed Choi's concentration. "We're going to need that to put into evidence." Voight had been waiting outside, not wanting to get in the way.

"Of course," responded Choi.

"And one other thing," Voight insisted.

"What is that?" Choi inquired, his voice tight with indignation. He wasn't in the mood to have a cop tell him what to do, especially after the frustration caused by the sudden and unexpected allergic reaction the man had had.

"A rape kit," replied Voight quietly.

Finally, Choi looked at the patient in front of him and realized the underwear the man was wearing was spotted with blood, not to mention, entirely age inappropriate. The dark smears of dried blood, in sharp contrast to the red and blue stars. The irritation, he had felt for Voight a moment before, vanished entirely. It was replaced by red-hot anger directed at whoever had purposely and intentionally damaged this sad creature before him.

Not wanting to wait for a full CT, a few quick x-rays were taken of the patient's legs. Both tibias were severely fractured but non-displaced. Surgery would be necessary to permanently repair the bones so they could fully heal. In the meantime, the patient's legs were stabilized as the medical team performed the time-consuming process of collecting samples for the rape kit.

Dr. Rhodes, the trauma surgery fellow, stepped into the examination room to confer with Dr. Choi.

"Nearly finished?" Rhodes asked Choi as he observed Choi performed a rectal exam on the patient. Since they couldn't risk rolling the man on his side because of the broken tibias, the staff had opted to place the man in stirrups, his leg's lifted up and apart, splayed open.

"We got the necessary swabs and scrapping taken but the scope has revealed multiple rectal tears and scarring," Dr. Choi replied dejectedly.

"I can stitch him up in surgery," said Rhodes.

"If you have time, we haven't gotten the lab results back yet so giving him any amount of sedation would be ill-advised," Choi explained. "The last thing you would want is for a malignant hyperthermia incident on your hands. All you can do is hope he doesn't gain consciousness mid-surgery."

"I'll do my best to get him in right away then," Rhodes said as he departed the room.


	4. Post-Op

**Chapter 4: Post-Op**

Sergeant Voight anxiously paced the hallway outside of surgery. The doctors had said that the victim was not in any real danger but since they couldn't use any medications on him, that the biggest risk was him waking up during surgery. It was hard to imagine anything worse than waking up while being dissected on the operating table. But worse things had already happened to this man. Voight had in his possession the rape kit. The kit had to go to an independent lab for testing so Voight had to wait until Dawson and Lindsay show up to get it from him. The last thing he wanted was to break the chain of custody and have the evidence discredited.

Just then Hank saw his detectives come around a corner and head towards him. Erin Lindsay was practically like a daughter to him. He and his late wife had taken her in as a teenager, her rough past serving to motivate her desire to leave that life behind and join the police force. Antonio Dawson was another matter. He had no love for Voight and had tried somewhat successfully to turn Voight in for being corrupt. Hank had too many friends in the right places for any charges to stick. So now Dawson was one of Hank's subordinates, where Hank could easily keep an eye on him.

"Sergeant," Dawson said, his greeting terse.

"Give me a rundown of where we're at," said Voight.

"Olinsky has the crime scene contained, warrant's on its way," replied Lindsay, her voice deep and husky.

"Any sign of the second perp," asked Voight.

"Not yet but we have a name at least. Lee Barrett. Doctor Lee Barrett, actually. He's a plastic surgeon out in North Shore," answered Lindsay.

"We have a BOLO out on his plates," Dawson added. "We'll be sure to let you know if something pops up."

"Good," said Voight, "In the meantime, I want you two to run this kit over to the lab and then go search the house. Turn over every nook and cranny. I want to know: who these men are, who our vic is, how long he's been there, what they've been doing with him, and why."

"Sure thing sarge," answered Lindsay.

"And—" Hank started to say but was interrupted by the dark-haired doctor coming out of the O.R.

"How did it go?" Voight asked.

"Well, the good news is that we repaired the damage with biodegradable polymer screws, so he won't need additional surgeries to remove any hardware," Rhodes began. "He's still unconscious but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Overall the damage to his legs and the scarring will be minimal. The bad news is that this guy has been through the wringer. He's been severely malnourished and dehydrated. And the scans revealed evidence of thirty plus broken bones that have been broken, set, and healed in the recent past. Mostly fingers and ribs, but larger ones as well. Not to mention the rectal examination revealed traces of semen in addition to tearing and scarring."

Voight and Dawson both paled at the idea of a man being at the receiving end of such horrific abuse.

"How far back do the injuries date?" Lindsay asked, unfazed.

"More than a year, less than five, it's hard to say," replied Rhodes. "It depends on a lot of factors."

Dawson asked, "When do you think he'll wake up?"

"Hopefully soon," said Rhodes, "CT scan didn't show any signs of brain damage. And we've got him off the respirator and on an IV vitamins and nutrient cocktail."

"_Hmmm_," Hank huffed. "Looks like I'm staying here until he wakes up then. Thank you, Doctor Rhodes." Then turning to his detectives and handing Dawson the nondescript brown paper bag that held the rape kit. "You two beat it and call me if there are any more developments."


	5. Awake

**Chatper 5: Awake**

*BEEP*. . . . . . *BEEP* . . . . . . *BEEP* . . . . . . *BEEP*. . . . . . *BEEP* . . . . . . *BEEP* . . . . . . *BEEP*. . . . . . *BEEP*

"_What is that terrible sound_," Bobby thought as he lay decumbently on the basement floor. He attempted to ignore it as he tried to shift his mind elsewhere. Both of his legs were thrumming in pain, but that was to be expected after Father had… Father had… Bobby's thoughts were fuzzy and the recent memories were floating in and out of his grasp. At least they had given him his mat back, he had missed it these past eight weeks. He adjusted slightly, basking in comfort.

*BEEP*

"_For heaven sakes, what on earth is making that sound_," thought Bobby his eyes flying open. His eyes came to rest on a heart and respiratory monitor next to his bed. A bed. He was in a bed. He sat up quickly, panicked. Where was he?

To his right, there was a white board with writing on it but it took a moment for his eyes to properly focus on the words. There was patient information and in the corner the imprint of caduceus in a hexagon accompanied by the words 'Gaffney Chicago Medical Center.'

"_No_," Bobby thought, "_no. This is a hospital. My Daddies would never take me to a hospital. And in Chicago? How the fuck did I get to Chicago? I don't know anyone in Chicago. Where are my Daddies? I need them._" Father would break more than just a few bones if he knew where Bobby was. How could Bobby be so naughty? He had to get back to them.

Pushing the covers off, Bobby realized his lower legs were encased in plaster casts, rendering him immobile. There was a length of tubing emanating from underneath the light colored hospital gown he was wearing. Bobby tugged at it, making himself gasp in shock and discomfort. He had been catheterized, and the tubing ran up to into his penis, down his urethra, and into his bladder. Whoever had done this had 'touched' him. Father and Daddy would both be furious if they knew Bobby had let someone else touch him. He belonged to them and them alone.

Wanting to call out for Daddy, but too afraid of who else might be around, Bobby stayed silent. No one had realized he was awake yet, so if he could reach a phone he could just call his Daddies to come and get him.

"_Don't be foolish_," the sly voice within him said. "_You don't know their number. You don't even know their names. They've obviously abandoned you_."

"_No_," Bobby thought fiercely, "_they LOVE me._"

"_Love_," the voice scoffed, "_Who could love a fucking whore like you?_"

The voice was right, he was a whore. A useless fucking whore, unworthy of his Daddies' love. It was a little wonder that they hadn't gotten rid of him earlier.

As the tears ran down Bobby's cheeks, he noticed a crash cart in the corner, "_I need them. I can't live without them. If they don't want me, then I don't want to be alive anymore._"

Trying not to dislodge any of the tubing or wiring he was hooked up to, Bobby untangled himself from the lines, and let down the guardrail on the side of the bed. He swung his legs over the edge, breathing in with a hiss at the pain. That was one thing he could look forward to, no more pain. Painstakingly slow Bobby rolled over and lowered himself down gradually, his knees finally made contact with the hard linoleum.

Breathing hard, Bobby army crawled over to the crash cart and grasped the base. He knew crash carts weren't normally stored in a patients room, but he didn't care to know why it was in his room in the first place. What he cared about was the manual defibrillator on the top of the cart. Having a head full of random facts on a variety of subjects, Bobby remembered that, unlike the automated external defibrillators found in many public spaces that prevent accidental discharge, the defibrillators on crash carts had no such safety feature. He just had to turn it on, set the voltage to 1000, wait for it to charge, then push the shock button.

Holding onto the edge of the cart, Bobby leveraged it as best he could so he could get on his knees. Then reaching for the paddles, he had a hold of one but the other clattered onto the floor. Wincing at the sound, he glanced over at the door to see if he had drawn anyone's attention. When no one came, he placed both paddles down as he then turned the voltage knob all the way up. The last step was to charge the machine but he couldn't quite get a hold of the toggle needed to charge the device. Pulling himself up by his fingertips and putting far too much weight on his injuries legs, he finally was able to press the button, his fingers sweaty with perspiration and exertion. He let go of the cart and slid onto the floor.

The whine of the machine charging made Bobby doubt his plan. Maybe he had been taken from them. Maybe they were coming back for him.

"_They are not coming back,"_ hissed the voice, "_they broke your legs so you couldn't get back to them and knocked you unconscious so you wouldn't be able to resist them getting rid of you. It is clear that they don't want you anymore. They've given you to a new daddy. This person has clearly already 'touched' you, and you didn't even put up any sort of resistance. So you can accept your fate and have someone else become your daddy or you can make your own decision for once."_

Bobby didn't want a new daddy. He just wanted to be home. "_Home_," he thought, "I_'m just going home_." Picking up the paddles and placing them on his chest, Bobby pressed the shock buttons.

*BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP*


	6. Shock

**Chatper 6: Shock**

Sleep deprivation can have some pretty unpleasant side effects. Hank Voight had been awake for over 24 hours and once his detectives had left, he pulled up a chair just outside of the victim's recovery room and had a seat. The thing about being sleep deprived, and then sitting down to wait for something that might or might not happen in the near to distant future, is that it can make a person fall asleep at the most inopportune moments. And not only fall asleep but stay asleep when there are sounds indicative of injured person getting out of bed and fumbling with dangerous medical equipment.

The sounds that finalized roused Voight, from his not-so-peaceful slumber, were the sound of feet hitting the ground in rapid succession as medical professionals rushed into the victim's room and called a code blue. Pushing himself to a standing position, Voight was helpless as he could just stand and watch the code team attempt to restart the man's heart.

They didn't bother to move him off of the floor as they started. One medic had a manual oxygen bag valve mask placed over the man's face and was decompressing the bag every few seconds. A nurse had straddled the man's chest and was performing chest compressions. The tune of 'Another Bites the Dust' by _Queen_ drifted into Voight mind as he watched. Granted not the most optimistic song to come to mind, but it was an ironic fact that the beat of the song matched exactly the beat one should give compressions at when attempting CPR.

Then the attending physician, Dr. Manning, had picked up the paddles off of the floor and recharged the defibrillator. She shouted, "CLEAR," and everyone stood back. The man convulsed as the machine sent the electrical current through his body. A few seconds past and the monitor resumed its beep… beep … beep.

As the medical team relocated the man back to his bed, the doctor paged for Dr. Rhodes. A few moments later, Dr. Rhodes entered the room at a brisk pace.

"What happened," Rhodes asked Dr. Manning.

"We had to restart his heart," said Manning.

"What do you mean restart his heart? Did he have a heart attack? I didn't see any blood clots on the CT or while I was operating on him."

"No, he did it to himself. He managed to get out of the bed somehow and then get ahold of the defibrillator and…"

"Suicide attempt?"

"That would be my guess, but I'm sure you'll want to have Dr. Charles come and do a psych eval."

"I'll go and page him right away." Then sighing with resignation, Dr. Rhodes said, "I should've known to put him in soft restraints after seeing those scars on his wrists but I was worried about traumatizing him more."

"Well, it's not like you have a choice about restraining him now," replied Dr. Manning as she walked out of the room and past Voight. Dr. Rhodes turned to watch her leave and noticed Voight standing in the entryway. Rhodes beckoned him into the room.

"You're still here sergeant?" Rhodes asked as he turned to place the patient in soft restraints that wrapped around each wrist and attached to the guardrails on the bed.

"I will be until he wakes up," Voight answered, "Then I'll have an on-duty officer come and be stationed here until we nab the bastards that did this."

"Can you believe he tried to kill himself, after all, he's been through, and now that he has been rescued?"

"Honestly," replied Voight, "I don't know. If it were me, I'd rather be dead than have to face what's happened."


	7. Reality

**Chapter 7: Reality**

Eventually, Bobby's eyes fluttered back open, the damned beeping noise had woken him up again. Except for this time, not only his legs were hurting, but his chest as well. Trying to move, Bobby quickly realized he had been put in restraints.

The rustling of his movements must've caught the attention of the man sitting in the corner, who stood up and poked his head out of the doorway, asking a passing nurse's aid to get the doctor. Bobby did not like the look of this man, not one bit. This man was caucasian, of average height, a slightly stocky frame, and a grizzled appearance. His clothes consisted of a button up plaid shirt and jeans, attached to the belt of his jeans was a badge. Which could only mean one thing, this man was a cop.

"Hello," Hank said gently. "I'm glad you're finally awake. The doctor will be in here in just a minute. My name is Sergeant Voight. Can you tell me your name?"

Bobby didn't respond, just glared at the man. There was no way he was going to talk to this man or anyone else for that matter. Just because his Daddies had abandoned him, didn't mean they wouldn't make good on their promise to make that wretched video they had made public. Besides Father said not to talk to anyone. If he was a good listening boy and obeyed his Father's instructions, then maybe they would come and get him.

Another man entered the room, he was the same height as the officer, but lankier. His hair was black with a distinguishing widow's peak and he wore maroon scrubs under a white doctor's coat.

"_Ahhhh_," said Dr. Rhodes, "awake at last I see. I'm Doctor Rhodes. Just a few questions I'd like to ask you if you don't mind."

Bobby did not respond.

Pursing his lips together, Dr. Rhodes continued to speak.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Do you know where you are?"

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Can you tell me if you're in pain?"

After each question, the doctor paused, awaiting a response. But Bobby stayed still and silent, no response, nothing.

"Alright, I'm just going to do a quick assessment, and then you can rest. Okay?" Rhodes said as he reached forward to pull back the bed sheets.

Jerking away violently, panic surging through his veins and his eyes wide with fear, Bobby pushed himself as far away from the doctor as he could manage.

"Whoa!" said Rhodes, alarmed. He pulled his arms back and lifting up his hands, fingers spread, showing that he didn't mean any harm. "Don't be scared. I'm not going to hurt you. If you don't want me to touch you, I won't."

Rhodes turned to Voight and said, "Keep an eye on him for me. I'll be back in just a minute." Then Rhodes left only to be back a short while later followed by two other doctors.

The first doctor was obvious the senior of the two. He was a slightly portly man with a pair of square shaped spectacles hanging off of the end of his nose. He was wearing a sweater vest and a loose tie under his gray coat. The second doctor was female, young, most likely a resident. Her hair was a frizzy mass of unkempt curls that made her look frazzled.

"This is Doctor Charles, he is our chief of psychiatry. And Doctor Reese is a resident here," said Rhodes.

Bobby shifted uneasily. There were too many people looking at him and all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die. It was all too much. He couldn't move any farther away so he turned his head away from the watching eyes and buried his face in the pillow.

"Doctor Rhodes, Doctor Reese, Sergeant, if you could please step out of the room for a minute," asked Dr. Charles softly. "I think our patient is feeling a bit overwhelmed. Let's give him some room to breathe, shall we."

They turned and left, and Dr. Charles shut the door behind them before turning back towards Bobby.

"I can't imagine how terrible this all is for you," said Charles. "I would like to help you if you'll allow it."

His face still buried in the pillows, Bobby began to cry. Sobs of grief shaking his body. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be back home with his Daddies. These people didn't understand. They probably thought of him as an actual human being, and not who he really was, a worthless whore.

"You might not believe me, but it's the truth. I really do want to help you. In fact, so does Doctor Rhodes and Doctor Reese and Sergeant Voight. All we want to do is help. Could you do me a favor and look at me?"

Bobby didn't turn his head but he did stop crying.

"Can you tell me your name? Or maybe where you're from?"

Finally turning his head, Bobby looked down at the man's feet, not wanting to make eye contact.

Charles took a step forward and Bobby shrunk back. The psychiatrist stopped on the spot but continued talking.

"Do you understand what I am saying? Do you speak English?

"_No_," Bobby thought, finally making eye contact, "_English is bad. It isn't allowed_."

Unfortunately, the doctor couldn't read minds. (But if he could, it would make his job a hell of a lot easier.) But he did know when he had pushed enough, and now it was time to back off.

"Okay," said Charles comfortingly, "you don't want to talk. That's fine. But if you need anything, anything at all. Just let me know."

Doctor Charles stepped back out into the hallway to three pairs of eagerly questioning eyes.

"So what do you think is wrong with him," asked Dr. Rhodes, "PTSD?"

"No," replied Charles, "nothing 'post' about this trauma. This is current. He is currently experiencing trauma. He's in a state of shock."

"Can't we just give him some benzos to calm him down?" asked Reese.

"No," interjected Dr. Rhodes, "the few tests that have come back indicate he has something called Drug Intolerance Syndrome. So it basically means he is hypersensitive to drugs and more importantly to the benign compounds in which all medications are suspended. He's allergic to them. Giving him anything would cause him to go into anaphylactic shock."

"So we can't give him any medication, not even for the pain?" Reese asked.

Rhodes shook his head, "Unfortunately not."

"Something tells me he's no stranger to pain," interrupted Voight. "But I'm guessing that coupled with the stress he's under, he's not likely to start talking anytime soon."

"It's not uncommon for victims of this type of trauma to not want to talk, especially to strangers," said Charles, "It might be days or even weeks before he starts talking."

"Forget about talking," said Rhodes, "what about providing him with basic care. Did you see him flinch? It was like he thought I was going to stick him with a red hot poker or something."

"Hmmm," Dr. Charles uttered, "I'm assuming the people that did this to him are male?"

"As far as we know," replied Voight.

"Then it probably best we only have female nurses or doctors perform any sort of procedure or tests that would involve touching, at least for the time being," said Dr. Charles.

"Then I'm guessing there is little use in my being here," said Voight. "I'll send over a uni to be stationed outside his door in case someone shows up looking for him. Be sure to let me know if anything changes." Voight turned at left. He needed to get back to the station, to direct the investigation from there. Picking at the fabric of his shirt and smelling it, he wrinkled his nose in disgust. He smelled of that dank basement. Perhaps a change of clothes and a quick shower were necessary.

The conversation didn't end when Voight left. After conferring, the doctors decided to move the patient to the psych ward. It was quieter up there, and he could convalesce just as well there as anywhere else. More importantly, it would be easier for them to keep him monitored. He had already proven himself a danger to himself and putting him on a suicide watch was deemed not only prudent but necessary.


	8. Deception

**Chapter 8: Deception**

Back at the station, Sergeant Voight rounded the corner as he walked towards the holding cells. The blond man was sitting against the back wall, his head buried in his arms. Hank banged on the metal bars to get the man's attention. Dean shuddered, the sounds jarringly painful as they reverberated in his skull. The man glowered at the policeman standing outside the cell door.

"Hey Kipling," Voight said, "did they give you that phone call yet?"

"No," replied Dean tersely.

"You okay? I'm guessing you probably still have a nasty headache," asked Voight.

Dean nodded in the affirmative.

"Well, give me just a second, and I'll see if I can find you some water and aspirin," said Voight before he walked off.

Once the sergeant was upstairs he summoned one Officer Kevin Atwater to his office.

"Atwater," said Voight, "I want to you to get everyone back here so we can go over the case so far. Any news on the other perp, Lee Barrett?"

"The BOLO alert led to his car being found at O'Hare," answered the officer. "Looks like he booked a round-trip ticket to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, of all places. He left last night and has a return flight scheduled for Monday morning."

"Well, as soon as we let Kipling have that phone call, he's going to call Barrett who will come rushing back to Chicago. Let's hold off on that until we have more information to go off of."

The members of the Intelligence Unit were all gathered around their squad room, a whiteboard in their midst. Sergeant Voight led the group that consisted of Detectives Olinsky, Lindsay, and Dawson and Officer Atwater. As it was fairly late in the evening, most of them were ready to pack up and head home for the night. But first, they needed to surmise what they knew of the situation and get their assignments. It went without question that they would be working through the weekend.

"First things first, where are we on the identity of our victim?" Voight asked as he pasted a picture of Bobby to the board.

"He's an unidentified Caucasian male in his 30's or 40's," replied Lindsay. "We ran his description through the missing person's database, but we didn't get any hits."

"Male victims of this type of abuse are typically sex workers," interjected Olinsky. "When a man in that profession goes missing, you're not likely to find anyone placing a missing person's report."

"Good point," replied Voight, "Atwater, run the guy's fingerprints and DNA through IAFIS and CODIS. Maybe if he's been picked up for solicitation in the past, we can find out who he is. Moving on, our suspects, Dean Kipling and Lee Barrett." He added their pictures and names to the board as well.

"They're both doctors," replied Dawson, "Kipling specializes in genetics and works out at the university doing research. He was picked up last night for a DUI after he had one too many at Jimmy's Bar. Other than that he has had a previous DUI and a few drunk and disorderies, but nothing recent. Barrett is a successful plastic surgeon and has his own practice. He doesn't have a record as far as we know. The two of them attended the same medical school in Philly, so that's probably where they met."

"The two of them been together a long time," added Lindsay. "They even went up to Canada are got married a few years ago."

"What did you guys turn up when you searched the house?" Voight asked.

"There wasn't much on the main floor," said Dawson. "A tablet and a computer in the desk drawer of their room. Both password protected of course. We've sent those off to the techs already. And then the crime scene guys have collected a bunch of fingerprints, samples, and pictures."

"The basement is another matter," said Lindsay, "In that locked room, there were all sorts of medical supplies: needles, syringes, vials of medication, scalpels, and even some high tech testing equipment. There was a small refrigerator full of blood and other bodily fluid samples. All in all, some pretty creepy shit."

"What were they doing with all that stuff?" asked Atwater.

"My guess is they were performing some sort of medical experiment on the guy," said Dawson. "But we didn't find a single trace of any sort of records, data, test results, that sort of thing."

"We'll know more once we are able to get a warrant for their work computers," added Lindsay. "Only problem with that we wouldn't want anyone from Barrett's practice talking to him and warning him about a bunch of cops poking around and asking questions before he gets on a plane back to Chicago. We really need to get him back here."

"Leave that to me and Olinsky to take care of," said Voight. "The two of you, get those warrants but wait until we have both men in custody before executing them. Meanwhile, go over evidence you gathered with a fine tooth comb. And get down to the lab, I want the results from that rape kit and anything else the crime scene techs found in the house."

Hank had Olinsky move Kipling into interrogation. Then collecting a bottle of aspirin from his desk and a bottle of water, the sergeant went to go and pay their suspect a visit.

"Here are those pain pills I promised," Voight said as he placed the items in front of Dean.

"Thank you," replied Kipling.

Voight casually took a seat across the metal table. Sitting down and leaning back,Hank started to make small talk.

"My son, he's a good kid," said Voight. " But a few years ago, he made the mistake of having one drink too many and got behind a wheel. So I definitely feel for you in this situation."

"I appreciate you're kindness," Dean said, "but I probably shouldn't talk to you about it."

"You're right," said Voight. "I'm just trying to make sure this alleged incident doesn't ruin your life. I looked at your file and saw that this wasn't your first time getting pulled over for drunk driving. If you're not careful, this second DUI could land you in jail. I could help you if you wanted to talk, but it's your choice."

"So what you're saying is this conversation would be off the record?" Kipling asked.

"What I'm saying is that come Monday morning, you'll be in front of a judge at a bail hearing. That is two days you get the pleasure of being in police custody. A lot can happen in two days. Charges can be reduced or maybe even dropped if you play your cards right."

"What do you get out of it?"

"Can't a man just want to help another man out?"

"Not in my experience."

"Well, Doctor Kipling, it just so happens that last night a particular friend of a friend was patronizing Jimmy's Bar. It just so happens that is the same bar you were at last night," Voight lied. He needed to give Kipling a reason to trust him. What better way to not arouse suspicion than to invent a decoy target?

"At this bar," Voight continued, "this friend of a friend was having drinks all night. It would be beneficial if someone could corroborate his alibi."

"You want me to lie and say I saw some guy at drinking all night at the bar I was at," questioned Kipling suspiciously.

"I want you to remember seeing a guy at the bar drinking all night," replied Voight. "Besides, you're a doctor. Doctors make believable witnesses."

"To be clear, if I say I saw this guy, then you'll get the charges dropped?"

"I am really not in the position to make any promises, but I can guarantee that the last thing I want to see is you go down on this DUI charge. Now can you tell me what you remember from last night?" Voight inquired.

"Not really," Kipling relented. "My husband and I had a fight before he had to leave on a business trip. So I consoled myself with a few drinks."

"At Jimmy's Bar?" Voight prompted.

"Yeah, at Jimmy's," replied Kipling.

"How long were you there?"

"I don't know exactly, from about 10:00 until then closed."

"And you got a good look at the other patrons?"

"Hey man, just show me a picture of the guy and I'll say whatever you want me to say. I'll even say that I bought him a drink and spent the night reminiscing about how bad the white sox are playing this season."

"Good. Then I think we're about done here. Just a few more things to discuss. I'm assuming your husband— What's his name?"

"Lee."

"So I'm assuming Lee will be your first call."

"If you guys ever let me use a phone."

"As long as I get what I need, you can make as many phone calls as you like," Hank said with a smile as he stood up and left the room.

"Did you see that guy?" Voight asked as he walked into the room where Olinsky had been observing the interrogation. "More concerned about his own skin than he is about the man he left bleeding in that basement."

"And as far as he knows, that man is still in the basement," replied Olinsky. "He's going to want to get out of here as soon as possible or have his partner get back so that one of them can attend to the guy."

"That's what I'm counting on," said Hank.


	9. Monitor

**Chapter 9: Monitor **

The sergeant and his detective watched from another room as their suspect dialed his husband's phone number. Voight had let Kipling use one of the department phones, and had left the man alone so he could have some 'privacy.' Of course, that phone call was being monitored and recorded from another room.

Barrett must've not wanted to answer a call from an unfamiliar number because it took Kipling calling three separate times before he picked up.

"Hello?" Lee answered the phone inquisitively.

"Hey Lee," Dean said, "it's me."

"Dean, why are you calling me from this number? Did you lose your phone?"

"I guess you could say that."

"Babe, please tell me you didn't do something stupid."

"Well…"

"What did you do?"

"I got a DUI," Dean said quickly. "But before you freak out, I'll have you know that I've got everything under control."

"Under control?! Dean! Are you calling me from jail?"

"I'm not in jail. Just in custody until my bail hearing on Monday. But I spoke with an officer and he says that he might be able to get me out sooner. Maybe even have the charges dropped."

"Son of a— Dean, how could you?"

"I didn't do it on purpose Lee."

"I'm coming home."

"No, you don't have to. I can take care of myself."

"If you could take care of yourself, then you wouldn't be in police custody right now would you?" Lee asked ironically.

Dean sighed heavily, "I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

"It's too late for apologies. I'll book the first flight home and be there as soon as I can."

"What about that '_business meeting_' you have to attend?" Dean asked, putting emphasis on the subject of the sentence. He was fully aware that it was entirely possible for the police to be listening in on his conversation and the last thing he needed was to arouse suspicion about his and Lee's activities.

"Business meeting, um…" Lee said slowly, obviously catching Dean's meaning. "It's not going to happen. The person I was meeting turned out not to be the person I thought they were. I figured that out soon after I got here. So there's no point in me staying."

"Oh. Well, if only you could've figured that out without having to get on a plane and fly 500 miles away," Dean said bitterly.

"Me, too. But there is nothing I can do about it now."

"I know."

"Dean?"

"What?"

"I'm assuming before you left the house, you locked it down. Turned off the lights, made sure the stove was off, that sort of _thing._"

"Yeah, I took care of it."

"Good. Well, then I'll see you soon."

"Okay."

"And babe, don't be talking to the cops. Ask for a lawyer."

"I don't think I need one."

"Just ask for one if they come to talk to you again. Okay?"

"Okay."

Olinsky turned to his commanding officer and said, "They knew we were listening. They didn't even mention the victim."

"They were just being cautious. Doesn't mean that they know we found him," replied Voight. "But Barrett mentioned making sure a certain _thing_ was locked down. He might have been referring to our vic."

"Could be, or he could be referring to something else," Olinsky responded. "I also don't think that he was on a business trip. There is something these two are hiding."

"Either way, you'll get a chance to ask him. Monitor the flights and pick Barrett up when he lands," instructed Voight as he got up and walked out of the room.


	10. The Lab

It was an abnormal occurrence for the detectives to go to the forensic lab in person. Usually, they just waited until the lab sent the results to the station. But this wasn't a normal case. So if the technicians needed a little extra push to get the testing done quickly, then Dawson and Lindsay were happy to provide that motivation in-person.

Ever the gentleman, Dawson held the door open for his partner as the two detectives walked into the building. Lindsay rolled her eyes but didn't say anything, secretly appreciating the small but kind gesture. The building was a maze of doors and hallways. Indistinctive bland beige walls and tiled floor with brown doors and metal door signage made up the government building. It lacked soul and was clearly designed with only function in mind.

"I always get turned around when I come here," said Dawson as the walked. He turned his head to read the signs on each of the doorways, making sure they didn't pass their destination.

"Two lefts, a right, and another left," replied Lindsay confidently.

"What would I do without you?" Dawson asked ironically.

Lindsay smirked. They had reached the doorway to the lab and she opened the door.

There was no one at the front desk. The air was stale and an old pedestal fan was chugging along in the corner, jerkily oscillating back and forth. The room was just as bland as the hallway. There were a few metal folding chairs along the wall behind a coffee table topped with old and tattered National Geographic magazines. One the counter in front of them was a brass call bell. Lindsay stepped forward and tapped the plunger and it emitted a sharp ding. They were greeted a moment later by a short lab tech.

"Detectives," said the short and stocky woman with thick spectacles. "What can I do for you?"

"We are working that John Doe case, where the guy was being held captive in a basement," said Dawson. "Anyway, we were hoping that you might have something for us."

"I'm sorry Detectives," said the woman. "We only got the evidence a few hours ago and we are in the middle of testing. I don't have any results to give you. You will just have to wait for us to finish and submit the report."

"Listen…" Lindsay began to say to the woman while glancing down at the name tag on the left breast of her lab coat, "… Myrian. I realize this is highly unusual but we're dead in the water without more information. There is a man lying in a hospital that has been put through hell and the wouldn't want the men responsible to walk free."

"I understand," said Myrian. "I really do. But we moved this case to the front of the line as it is. Typically, it would be weeks before we even begin testing. This is a government run operation so you know we have a huge backlog and with only an overworked and underpaid staff to do the work. I just can't snap my fingers and magically have the tests completed and the results compiled into a nice little report."

"Please," Dawson said, "anything would help. Anything at all."

"Well…" said Myrian uncertainly.

"Just a few details," pleaded Lindsay, "please."

"Okay," Myrian relented. "But keep in mind, until the testing is complete and we've had the time to analysis the finding and submit a report, that nothing I'm going to tell you has been verified."

"Thank you," said the detectives.

"Wait here," instructed the lab tech as she departed the room.

Lindsay and Dawson took a seat and waited for her to return. Dawson sat and stared at the clock while Lindsay pulled out her phone. She had been texting back and forth with one of the court clerks to check on the status of search warrant requests.

Approximately forty-five minutes later, Myrian emerged with a manila folder. Sitting down with the detectives, she opened the folder and started to place the contents on the coffee table. Each time she pulled another document or photo from the folder, she would briefly explain what it was.

"First, we haven't had the time to match all the fingerprints, but we pulled three distinct pairs from both the basement and the upstairs. The obvious conclusion being that your victim has spent time upstairs and hasn't been kept solely in the basement.

"Next, the medical equipment. There's not much I can say about that other than most of it was kept sterile except for a few pieces that were recently used on which we found traces of blood, tissue, and bone matter. But like I said, we haven't had the time to run the DNA, so there's no telling who it belongs to.

"There was a plush penguin toy collected at the scene. The toy isn't very old but shows signs of wear and tear. It did have trace amounts of bodily fluids on it but again, we've yet to do any testing. These type of fabric items tend to get dirty easily. I wouldn't be surprised if we find trace amounts of mucus, blood, and semen.

"Stored in the basement were various chains and cuffs. These were heavy duty and probably custom ordered, my guess would be from an online BDSM store. Again, there were traces of bodily fluids, in this case, most likely blood.

"The rape kit, of course, is still being processed. But there are definitely traces of blood and semen from both the anal and oral swabs. That and skin cells under the fingernails, hair, blood, and clothing are still all being tested. I will say though, that the type of underwear this guy was wearing is a bit strange for someone his age.

"Lastly, that small DVD player that was in the basement. There was a DVD-R inside but it the media loaded on it was corrupted somehow. It's unfortunate but these things do happen. We've sent it off to be processed at the tech lab, and they'll send it over to the station if they recover anything."

Lindsay and Dawson discussed what the lab technician had told them as the strode out of the building and go into their vehicle.

"If our John Doe was upstairs, do you think that means he wasn't actually being held captive?" Lindsay theorized. "Could this just be some consensual role-playing gone too far?"

"No way," replied Dawson. "The man has broken bones and is severely malnourished. There is no one I know who would go through that willingly."

"I'm not sure, people are into some pretty kinky stuff these days."

"Whatever weird sex stuff these guys were doing, it sure as hell isn't acceptable to leave someone with broken legs locked in a basement. These guys are doctors, they should know better."

"Wish that DVD wasn't corrupted, it might clear up some unanswered questions."

"I'm not sure I want to know. When you factor in that toy penguin and the little kid underpants he was wearing, these guys might be into some pedophilia type stuff. I would really hate to have to investigate is something of that nature."

"That makes two of us."

Lindsay's phone beeped and she pulled it out of her pocket.

"Looks like our warrants went through," she said. "Let's go pick them up and then head back to the station to see if Voight wants us to wait before enforcing them."


End file.
